


Kim Kitsuragi and the Permanent Efficacy of Grace

by ezlybored



Series: divine but not devout [1]
Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Infidelity, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Pre-Canon, The Mortifying Ordeal of Being (Un)Known, but that is kind of what it is, i really don't want to tag this Alternate Universe - Catholicism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:14:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24317908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ezlybored/pseuds/ezlybored
Summary: "I'm not exactly religious," Du Bois says, more diffident than Kim would've expected given the rapt attention he paid to Dolores Dei's image. Then again, it doesn’t take a religious man to appreciate art, especially of an objectively beautiful woman."Every believer starts somewhere," Kim says diplomatically, choosing not to react to the skepticism written all over Du Bois’ face.In another world, seven years before Martinaise: Kim Kitsuragi isn't a priest. Harry Du Bois isn't married. That's about as simple as it gets.
Relationships: Harry Du Bois/Kim Kitsuragi
Series: divine but not devout [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1803826
Comments: 23
Kudos: 42





	1. the sound of glass

**Author's Note:**

> Title based off "Ezekiel 7 and the Permanent Efficacy of Grace," by The Mountain Goats.
> 
> Disclaimer: This fic was conceptualized in the middle of a dissociative episode and hand-raised on a diet of The Mountain Goats and Richard Siken. It's Kim-centric, but I'm not sure it's very nice to him. It's got Kim/Harry, eventually, but not in the nicest way either. 
> 
> I promise I have a nicer fic in the works that deals with a lot of my Asian-American feelings about how Kim's handled by the game and by the fandom, but for now, I hope you enjoy this.
> 
> See end notes of each chapter for warnings.

The case is titled THE SUNDAY SNATCHER, and it's the first time Sergeant Harrier Du Bois has questioned a member of the clergy. 

As a member of the clergy, it's the first time Deacon Kim Kitsuragi has been questioned. As Kim Kitsuragi, it's not, and he's sure it won't be the last. It's been two months since he began working at the Church of Our Lady's Light in Central Jamrock, and given the crime rate, he's honestly surprised an RCM officer hasn't dropped by already. Though that might say more about his misplaced faith in law enforcement than anything. 

The officer he’s currently dealing with, for what it's worth, looks to lean more competent than violent on the scale of cop dispositions. His appearance is passably neat at first glance, from what Kim can make out when the officer is on the other side of the room and half hidden behind a series of pews. When he first enters the church he gets distracted by the stained glass window of Dolores Dei, but Kim won't fault him for that. Most people do. 

It’s quiet, early in the morning, just Kim and the officer in this wide room, the amplified echoes that follow any move they make. Kim doesn’t look up when he hears footsteps approaching. He looks up when the sounds stop and finds the officer standing before him, hands in his pockets, still looking past him to the window bathing them both in golden light.

Then the officer makes a comment on the bold composition of the piece that goes over Kim's head, and that cements his first impression of the man as rather strange. Kim gives him a closer look. There are bags under his eyes, his tie is an offense to the senses, his shirt is rumpled from most likely wearing it for multiple days straight. This man has opinions on art, Kim thinks to himself, and amends his impression of the officer to ‘very strange.’

Kim has never known the first thing about art, but the officer is looking at him for a response with the same intensity as if he was in the middle of an interrogation. "It's a well-made work, and the church is fortunate to have it," Kim hedges. The church is several thousand reáls poorer to have it, actually, but that doesn’t make for polite conversation. "But I doubt you came here to discuss art, officer."

"No, I didn't… uh, Father." The title is hesitant, and a little uncomfortable sounding. And wrong.

Kim doesn’t wince. "Deacon," he corrects. "I'm not a priest, he’s not here right now. Deacon Kim Kitsuragi."

"Sergeant Harry Du Bois," Du Bois replies. His posture straightens, his tone becomes matter-of-fact. "I need to ask you a few questions. It'll only take a minute of your time."

Du Bois doesn't pull out a notebook, which lowers his competency a notch in Kim's eyes, but it's clear that he's familiar with information gathering. He fires off questions without a hitch, and Kim answers plainly. He's been working at the Church of Our Lady's Light for two months. Before that, he spent five years in East Jamrock, at the Hope for Humanity Church, though he wasn't a deacon until two years ago; he came to Central Jamrock because the priest here needs additional help, now that he's nearing sixty. Outside of church? He's a mechanic, has been for over a decade. No, he isn't married, he was ordained unmarried and as part of his vows shall remain so, though he doesn't see how that's relevant. Who is, in Revachol?

At that, Du Bois makes a strange expression. If Kim cared to categorize it, he might call it wistful. Yes, Kim tells him, as a deacon he has the authority to officiate a wedding—officer, I believe we've gotten off track. You haven't told me what you're investigating.

The matter at hand, Du Bois informs him, is a string of robberies over the course of the past month connected by the fact they all took place during mass, and the victims are all fairly regular attendees of the Church of Our Lady's Light. "Obviously you aren't a suspect," Du Bois assures him. "A hundred people can place you at church every Sunday. Maybe you've noticed, though, that someone who used to come every week has been missing the last month, or maybe there's another common thread linking the crimes."

Kim tells Du Bois the truth: that he had heard that several members of the congregation had valuables go missing, but he hadn't thought much of it. These things happen. And he hasn't been working here long enough to speak on whether or not someone's been unexpectedly absent. 

It chafes at him, that there's nothing he can do to help when it's his congregation being affected; that despite this case being assigned to an officer who gives a damn, Kim is powerless to keep it from joining the substantial percentage of cases that the RCM never solves. He is a man of god, not a man of action, a course he consigned himself to long ago. Prayer is his only weapon, and it is never enough.

Then he checks the time, and announces, "We'll be holding mass soon." A thought occurs to him before he makes his excuses and leaves. "You could stay for the service, and speak with Reverend Giroux or members of the congregation afterwards. They may prove more helpful than I have."

"I'm not exactly religious," Du Bois says, more diffident than Kim would've expected given the rapt attention he paid to Dolores Dei's image. Then again, it doesn’t take a religious man to appreciate art, especially of an objectively beautiful woman.

"Every believer starts somewhere," Kim says diplomatically, choosing not to react to the skepticism written all over Du Bois’ face. "You wouldn't be the first to attend mass without caring for it."

"I wouldn't disrupt the… proceedings?" This with a pointed glance to the white rectangles on Du Bois' jacket that make it clear to anyone within thirty feet what his occupation is.

With great patience, Kim points out, "You can take off your jacket. Most officers do when they attend mass."

Du Bois looks a little doubtful at the idea that officers attend mass at all. To be fair, it's not like Kim knows of all that many. But the detective nods and something loosens in his stance. "Alright," he concedes, albeit with great reluctance, "I guess I'll... stick around and try not to bother anyone too much.” And then, tacked on as an afterthought, “Thanks for your help, Deacon."

That should be that. Kim has answered the detective’s questions, done what he can to put him on the right track. Most likely, he’ll never see this man again after this brief interaction. Despite that, or maybe because of that, he gives into the fleeting impulse for humor. "You won’t bother anyone, I’m sure. It’s been a while since we saw a new face around here. Who knows?” He allows himself a small smile. “Maybe you were given this case for a reason.”

There’s a moment where Du Bois just stares at him, eyes narrowed and lips pressed together in a thin line, like he’s trying to figure out how serious Kim is and calculate the least incendiary answer based on that. Kim stares back, having long since perfected his own particular brand of clerical serenity.

It’s Du Bois who looks away first, scratching at the back of his neck. “That’s a nice thought, Deacon, but I don’t think I’ll be coming back.”

“We’ll see,” Kim says, as if he doesn’t believe him. 

He does.

Over the course of the next half hour the familiar faces start trickling in. Kim tells Reverend Giroux about the detective, pointing Du Bois out where he sits in the back row, divested of his jacket and looking small and rumpled in its absence. Giroux nods. No one else pays Du Bois any mind.

Throughout the service Kim maintains a background awareness of Du Bois, uncomfortable and disoriented, maintaining a deliberate distance from the rest of the churchgoers. He doesn’t know when to stand, when to sit, what to say or at what times. He glances over at the window frequently, at Kim less so, with the desperation of a man clinging to a rock in a storm. 

And it’s not that Kim has somehow isolated himself from people who aren’t faithful—he maintains a secular profession, after all—but it’s a strange little incongruity in the routine he’s made of his life. One that intrigues him more than it bothers him. For the hour that follows, he'd even call it a welcome distraction, though it's not a sentiment he'd express out loud. When he catches Du Bois looking at him, he looks back with just the hint of a smile on his lips.

Then Du Bois puts his jacket back on and he's the policeman again, returned to familiar ground. When Kim last sees him, the detective is speaking with Reverend Giroux. There's a keen focus to him that wasn't immediately apparent when Kim was subject to it, a genuine investment not just in the case but in the people he meets that's rare among Revachol's law enforcement. It changes the atmosphere inside; Kim feels lighter when he slips out of the church.

The sun is high in the sky, but it’s not yet noon, and though there’s few clouds to be seen there’s a lingering chill in the air. A Coupris 40 sits by the curb. It's immediately identifiable as Du Bois' by virtue of its unfamiliarity, even if it wasn't decked out in police livery. A good model, Kim thinks. Sturdy. Dependable. Uncomplicated. Preferred by the RCM for good reason.

Kim rubs his hands together, watches his breath mist in front of him, walks to his own car and heads home.

* * *

THE SUNDAY SNATCHER goes unsolved, but the string of robberies peters out regardless. Kim sees some new faces at mass. In his charitable moments, he likes to think that the thief was only acting out of necessity, or that they felt guilt and stopped, donating their illegitimate wealth to a better cause. The most likely answer is that the attendees of the Church of Our Lady's Light simply aren't ideal targets for theft.

True to his word, Du Bois doesn't come back to church. Not that Kim expected him to, and not that he's disappointed by his absence. It would—be something, though, to see more officers of the RCM among the faithful. Hold some kind of significance to the community, maybe. Or maybe not.

In any case, Kim sees Du Bois' car before he sees the detective again.

A month has passed. At first glance, he doesn't recognize the car as Du Bois' specifically. It's in much poorer shape, for one, and he only got the one look at it. But police cars stand out by design, and it's not all that often he sees one at the shop.

It's Du Bois' partner who brings it in, not that Kim knows it at the time. A Sgt. Jean Vicquemare who explains, succinctly, that there was some reckless driving leading to property damage, don't mind the blood on the upholstery. Vicquemare then goes on to explain, unnecessarily, that his shitkid partner is in the hospital because the dumbass doesn't have an ounce of self-preservation, as if he doesn't have a girl at home. Lucky to get away with a concussion, a graze, and a fucked up wrist.

Kim isn't really listening. It's obvious Vicquemare is concerned for his colleague and talking himself through his frustration, so he pretends to be involved in looking the car over and lets Vicquemare go at it. The officer's voice blends in easily with the music on the radio, some inoffensive pop tune that’s half static. Once there's a lull in the rant, he gives Vicquemare a quote.

Vicquemare raises his eyebrows and asks for an explanation of how the various fees add up. Kim walks him through it, watches Vicquemare's eyebrows lower from skepticism into resignation, and says, "You can pick your car up in two days."

"My partner's car, technically," Vicquemare tells him. "Harry Du Bois. He'll insist on picking it up himself."

Huh. Kim rapidly recontextualizes the events of the past few minutes. "Oh." It's a restrained expression of surprise. "I've met Sergeant Du Bois before, actually. He was at my church."

"Harry?" And Vicquemare's eyebrows return to the height of skepticism, but this time it's clear he's holding back laughter. "At church?" 

"Investigating a series of robberies."

"Ah. That case.” Vicquemare covers his mouth with his hand. He’s not going to apologize that the culprit was never found, that wouldn’t do any good, but that doesn’t mean he's comfortable with it. Being an officer who cares must be exhausting. Idly, Kim wonders where Vicquemare had been a month ago. He tries to imagine him in Du Bois’ place at the church.

The thing is that Vicquemare doesn’t look like he has opinions about art. Not that Du Bois did, but Kim gets the sense that Vicquemare is exactly the kind of man he looks to be, nothing more, nothing less. Without his jacket, Kim thinks, Vicquemare wouldn’t seem any smaller. Which is as good a sign as any to turn away and end the conversation.

“Well, give Sergeant Du Bois my regards,” Kim says in the direction of the car. “I’ll pray for his swift recovery.”

“Sure,” Vicquemare says, with an exhale that’s half a laugh. “He’ll appreciate it.”

* * *

It's a good car. Generally, Kim likes the Coupris 40 series, admires the engineering that makes it the workhorse it is. No pretensions of being anything else. This one in particular, though, is a car with a history. Kim's sure it's been down most alleyways in Jamrock, and it's certainly gone through worse scrapes before and come out fine.

There's blood smeared across the upholstery (from the looks of it, Du Bois' graze was a shoulder wound), a chewing gum wrapper left on the dashboard, and an empty pack of cigarettes forgotten next to the brakes. Sergeant Du Bois likes Astras.

Before he heads home that day, Kim does mumble a quick prayer for Du Bois’ health. Machines are easy to break and to put back together. Humans, not so much.

* * *

Sergeant Du Bois doesn’t walk lightly. Kim hears him a ways off, the regular rhythm of shoes against pavement, and chooses not to react. There's not much that he'll allow to interrupt this little ritual. Jacket sleeves rolled up, leaning against the wall, Kim lights his cigarette and takes a drag the moment before Du Bois speaks up.

"I didn't know they let priests smoke."

"Deacons," Kim corrects, an unthinking mumble with the cigarette still between his lips. He takes it between two fingers, exhales, elaborates. "It's allowed, as long as the habit doesn't become excessive."

He looks up. Du Bois is much the same as the first time they met, a little worse for wear. A little tired, strange creases on his shirt, a mottled bruise above his right brow.

Interestingly, his eyes are fixed on Kim's bare forearms. Kim straightens up and lowers his hands to his sides, and there's a definite shift in Du Bois' focus as the officer remembers to make eye contact. Face impassive, Kim files that information away. 

It doesn't look like Du Bois is about to offer pleasantries first, so Kim says, "Good afternoon, officer.” He gestures over his shoulder towards the garage. “Your car's ready for you to take back to the station.”

"Right. Thanks." But Du Bois doesn't move. He shifts from one foot to the other, hands jammed into his pockets, and glances towards his car for only a moment. “Jean—my partner—he said, you said, you’d pray for me? Thanks for that too.” The way he holds his left shoulder is careful.

“It’s nothing,” says Kim. He takes another drag. 

When it’s clear Kim’s not going to make any further comment, Du Bois makes his way over to the car, though he doesn’t commit to doing it until it’s already happening. His first step is an ungainly lurch. The second is more stable. 

Kim frowns, turning around the corner to keep his eye on the officer. “Are you alright to drive? Sergeant Vicquemare mentioned you had a concussion.”

Du Bois waves his hand in a clear gesture of dismissal. “The station's lazareth cleared me.” Not without argument, Kim imagines, but he doesn't push the subject.

Du Bois halts beside the driver's side and looks over the car in a wide sweep of his gaze, one hand absentmindedly patting the door. Standing next to his restored car seems to restore his spirits, make him stand taller. "Damn. You'd never know it bounced off a lamppost."

"I didn't, actually," Kim deadpans. He restrains a smile when he hears Du Bois snort. "Does that happen often?"

"As far as the captain knows, it never has." Evidently pleased, Du Bois completes his walk around the car at a relaxed pace. He hums along to whatever the radio is playing, which Kim has long since filtered out of his awareness. The music at the shop is more for customers and colleagues, not him. 

When the detective comes to a stop in front of Kim again, Kim takes his cigarette from his mouth, fully expecting Du Bois to thank him for his work and leave. 

Instead, Du Bois pats at his pockets, frowns, and asks, "Can I bum a smoke?"

In the middle of tapping the ash off his cigarette, Kim pauses. “Is that advisable?”

“Probably not,” Du Bois replies, upbeat. "But I'm craving one pretty bad, and I don't have a pack on me right now."

Kim mulls it over for all of five seconds before relenting and reaching into his jacket. Fortunately for Du Bois, he also likes Astras.

Grinning, Du Bois takes the offered cigarette and produces a lighter from his pocket. After fumbling for a moment, he manages to light it. His shoulders sag with visible relief once he takes a drag.

"Thanks, again. I owe you one." Du Bois pockets his lighter. "You don't mind if I, uh, hang out here for a bit?"

"If you're not needed at the station."

That provokes a grimace. "I'm supposed to write a report the minute I get back. Probably would've taken a smoke break anyway, but Jean gets pissy if I ask him for one."

Looking off at the horizon, Kim hums in response, not really keen on making conversation. He doesn't like or dislike company while he smokes, but it's unquestionably strange to be aware of someone in his proximity like this. Du Bois is not a man whose presence easily fades into the background.

Out of the corner of his eye, he's aware Du Bois is looking at him. Forearms, again.

"It's weird seeing you out of, uh, deacon clothes." Du Bois is not a man who keeps his thoughts to himself. "I almost didn't recognize you. It changes your whole..." He makes some kind of wiggly gesture. "Can't imagine you smoking in that getup."

"I usually don't," Kim admits, "not where anyone can see. It gives off the wrong impression."

"What, that it's possible to be a deacon and be cool?"

Kim scoffs. "Smoking is not 'cool.' It's a terrible habit and a health hazard."

"You look cool," Du Bois says, and his face is entirely earnest when Kim gives him an incredulous side-eye. "I guess that sets a bad example for the kids."

"Something like that," Kim says vaguely. His cigarette has burned down almost to the filter. This isn't a subject he cares for. He'd quit if he were a better man. He's come to terms with being a decent one.

For a few moments, it's silent but for the tinny music on the radio. "Sorry that we never found that thief."

"Most cases in Revachol go unsolved. It happens." Kim drops the remains of his cigarette and grinds it beneath his shoe. "If you want absolution, you could go to church again."

Du Bois smiles. In the span of two meetings, they seem to have created an inside joke. "I'll think about it, Deacon."

A few minutes later, Du Bois leaves. Kim tugs his jacket sleeves back up to his wrists.

* * *

For a while now Kim has had a recurring dream about being buried alive. Not anywhere near every night; sometimes he'll go a month without any, and then in a week he'll have three.

He doesn't want to call it a nightmare, because it isn't, really. Not always. There's a lot of variation. Sometimes it is awful. The dream starts in the middle, clods of soil raining down on him from an unknown source, but he's trapped in a coffin he can't fight his way out of, nothing to do but scream for help that won't come. Or there's no coffin, he comes to awareness encased in dirt, unable to move or breathe, weighed in on all sides and surrounded by darkness.

But sometimes, when the dream starts with all the action over, with the walls of a coffin around him, buoying him, it doesn't feel all that different from lying in bed with his eyes closed. He knows he's in a dream, he knows there's nothing that can really hurt him, and that there's nothing he can do about it. There's a kind of comfort in that certainty. It's almost pleasant enough to make up for the fact that he's been buried alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One scene at the end of the chapter describes a character's recurring dream about being buried alive. The dream isn't necessary to understand the fic, but will have thematic relevance.
> 
> Feel free to leave a comment below if there's something else you think needs a warning, or send me an ask/message on tumblr [(@transgayming)](https://transgayming.tumblr.com) if, say, you'd like a version of the chapter with the buried alive dream scenes taken out. Or if you just want to talk about the fic, that's cool too.


	2. the tabernacle reconstructed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Du Bois just looks at him, concerned, his gaze piercing in an unsettling way. It makes Kim feel horribly present.
> 
> He's not sure what he means to say. He just wants Du Bois to stop looking at him like that. What comes out when he opens his mouth is a blurted confession. "I need a cigarette."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for warnings.

If you don’t look at him closely, the boy might be sleeping. Kim thinks he is at first, squinting from across the street and trying to resolve the shadowed shape into discrete limbs and articles of clothing. But it strikes him as odd for anyone to be taking a nap on a winter evening in a tiny alleyway between two run-down buildings. At the very least it's cause for concern, and Kim will never learn better than to offer help to those who least want it.

With purpose in his step, he crosses the empty street. The moment he hits the opposite sidewalk, he realizes two things. First: the boy—he can't be older than eighteen—is very still, his limbs splayed in unnatural angles. Second: Kim recognizes him.

He calls out "Leon," not a yell, but with enough volume to carry. No response. Louder. "Leon."

Now he's standing beside the body, looking down. Still, very still, and there are no obvious marks on his body, but he's very pale. The smell of alcohol lingers, tinged with something sharp that might be bile. Shards of glass crunch beneath his shoe. Fuck. Kim kneels, careful, reaches out a hand and fumbles to find a pulse, pressing shaking fingers against the thin, clammy skin of the boy's wrist.

"Shit."

Every block in this city, there's one of those little stickers listing the number for the RCM Emergencies Desk. Kim barely registers that there's one slapped haphazardly on the door of the Frittte he stumbles into. As with most in the chain, there's a bored teenage girl manning the counter who doesn't bother looking up when Kim enters, the chime at the door jingling.

When he asks if he can use the phone, he needs to call the cops, her apathy fizzles and she makes an admirable effort at hurrying. Some instinct remembers to thank her before Kim dials the number and waits.

He watches the clock on the wall while he talks to the receptionist on the other end of the line, lacking anything else to look at. "I need to report a body." The second hand moves excruciatingly slowly. Explaining the location takes less than thirty seconds. Listening to assurances that an officer will be dispatched as quickly as possible, less than fifty.

It doesn't add up. The call ends practically the moment Kim picks up the phone, but he feels exhaustion in every fiber of his being.

The girl at the counter has been listening in with morbid curiosity but little real concern, and doesn't care enough to hide it. Her callousness doesn't foster resentment; if anything, it's sobering. Kim thanks her again for letting him use the phone and leaves the door chime ringing behind him.

He walks back to the body. Knowing something about who the boy is, he ought to tell whoever arrives. And it seems wrong, to leave him there unattended.

It still almost looks like he's sleeping. Kim turns his back to Leon's body, plants himself beside a dead tree withering beside the sidewalk, and waits.

There's no way of telling how long it takes for the RCM to arrive. Kim stands there, arms wrapped around himself for warmth, for who knows how long. The cold numbs his shock, lets him ignore the fact he's standing five feet away from a body, robs his sense of time from him entirely. 

In this area, there's always the sound of cars in the distance, or the next block over. What Kim will later realize was a Coupris 40 parking by the corner is nothing more than background noise to him. He only starts when he hears the sound of two sets of footsteps moving quickly towards him. Tearing his gaze away from the watery gray sky, he finds a familiar face looking back.

Three weeks have passed, by his estimate, since the last time he saw Sergeant Du Bois. The coincidence is strange enough to momentarily shunt the boy’s body out of the forefront of his mind, replaced by the thought that he must be imagining this.

"Sergeant Du Bois. Sergeant Vicquemare." Kim nods towards them, finding his own voice surprisingly even. Du Bois is looking back at him. Vicquemare's focus is already on the body. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"We were in the area," Du Bois explains. Vicquemare doesn't acknowledge him in the slightest, pulling out a well-used notebook and a pen and turning towards Kim.

"You were the one who called this in, Mr. Kitsuragi?"

"Yes."

"How did you find the body?" 

The expression on Vicquemare's face is somber, but his voice is authoritative, and his words are straightforward. Kim appreciates that. It helps keep his own voice steady. Stick to what’s relevant, he reminds himself. Don’t babble. "I was walking past—on the way to my apartment—I thought it was odd that someone would be sleeping in this alleyway, at this time of day. Especially a teenager. It seemed worrying. I came closer to see if he was alright…”

No need to finish that thought. Vicquemare nods, and he's doubtlessly about to ask another question, but Kim doesn't need much more prompting. "I know him,” he explains. “His name is Leon Ryu, his family goes to my church. He's seventeen." Was. It's hard to wrangle past tense when the boy is just—lying there.

At some point, without Kim's awareness, Du Bois stepped away to crouch by Leon's side. There's no emotion on his face, just a keen concentration as he looks over the scene. The boy is just a body, to him. He must see something like this every week. He doesn't see the Ryus every week, neatly fitted into their corner of the pew in the second row.

Kim watches Du Bois perform the Stations of Breath on a boy he saw sitting next to his family four days ago, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve instead of listening to the homily. The scene feels far away, skewed and run through some kind of filter. It can't be happening right now, here, in front of him.

In the next moment Du Bois pats the pockets of the baggy jacket Leon's wearing, frowns, and retrieves a small plastic bag. "Jean," he calls, and hands his discovery over for inspection once Vicquemare joins him.

Kim can't quite make out the contents of the bag before Vicquemare tucks it away, but the implication is clear. Vicquemare says, with sincere pity, "Poor kid."

"No obvious injuries," Du Bois notes. "Looks like he's been here since last night. Drag marks on the sidewalk." He stands up with a slight wince. "Someone moved him. Most likely, whoever he was hanging out with decided a comatose kid was really harshing the vibe."

Vicquemare sighs, crossing his arms, but doesn't offer any comment. 

The fact of the matter is, there's nothing to be done. Picking up the phone in that Frittte, Kim knew as much. Leon is dead. Whoever moved him, whoever was with him last night may be morally culpable. But even if the RCM could spare the time to chase them down for what's ultimately trivial, an everyday occurrence, it would be an effort wasted.

Chances are whoever Leon was with will end up in his position sooner or later. There's no justice or satisfaction in the thought, just a heavy certainty.

The detectives talk amongst themselves. Not particularly loudly, and Kim doesn't really care to try to make out the details of their conversation. Neither does he care to move from where he's standing, the dead tree with its peeling bark a solid presence behind him. The thought of going back home only reminds him that Leon won't be going back to his.

A pen clicks. The sounds of two voices come to a halt. Glass crunches underfoot.

Both detectives look surprised to find Kim lingering, having already fulfilled his purpose. Vicquemare recovers first, exchanging glances with a much more concerned Du Bois before walking past in the direction they came from—to the car. By some tacit agreement, it seems, Du Bois stays.

"Deacon, are you alright?"

Only with great effort does Kim resist the urge to snap at Du Bois in response. It's an unworthy impulse, but there's nowhere else for this ball of frustration and undeserved grief inside of him to go but out. He didn't really know Leon—but he knows Leon was still a kid, he knows the Ryus will be coming back to church missing one member, their heads bowed low. 

"I'll be fine," says Kim, curtly, because his self control isn't that powerful.

"Finding the kid must have been a shock." Generic statements like that are the last thing Kim wants to hear. Du Bois, for his part, looks a little shamefaced about not having anything better to offer. "Did you know the family well?"

"They come to church every week, so I see them often. But we haven't spoken much." He feels the urge to add, "Leon was a good kid," even though Kim doesn't know anywhere near enough to speak on that subject. 

"Yeah," Du Bois replies, just as baseless. Why is he still here? "Jean's calling the station right now. We'll get the kid taken care of, inform his parents about what happened."

"That's good," Kim says, which is nothing. He realizes he's holding himself tightly, his knuckles white, fingers digging pronounced creases into his jacket. If he lets go of the death grip on his arms, he thinks for a hysterical moment, he might fall apart, having kept himself together with his own tension.

Du Bois just looks at him, concerned, his gaze piercing in an unsettling way. It makes Kim feel horribly present.

He's not sure what he means to say. He just wants Du Bois to stop looking at him like that. What comes out when he opens his mouth is a blurted confession. "I need a cigarette." 

And, shit, Kim does. With that admission, some of the tension he's holding releases, and he's able to relax his grip on his arms enough to pat at his pockets looking for one. 

Of course, there aren't any. He meant to pick some up on the way home.

Du Bois' reaction to Kim's small frown is instantaneous, and before Kim can even think of saying anything he's holding out his own pack. There's something desperately relieved in Du Bois' earnest face when Kim reaches out for a cigarette. 

They're even now, Kim realizes dimly, right before he realizes his hands are shaking too much for him to use his lighter. In his state, a tiny obstacle like this is enough to make him swear under his breath. Frustration makes his continued attempts even more clumsy until the thing very nearly drops from his hands.

Only Du Bois' interference keeps the lighter from clattering to the ground, stepping closer in the process. His hands, larger than Kim's, are paradoxically steady when lighting his cigarette and awkward when handing the lighter back, seeming unsure of the proper procedure. Their hands don't touch, but the metal is warm with the ghost of contact. His eyes are on Kim's mouth—the cigarette in Kim's mouth.

Once the infernal thing is lit Du Bois steps back a little, but the current distance between them remains teetering on the edge of unfounded intimacy. There's enough space between Kim and the tree to increase it to something proper. Kim doesn't move.

"Thank you, officer," Kim says, when he's recovered some of his equanimity.

"You can just say Harry, Deacon." The moment Du Bois finishes the sentence, he looks somewhat bemused, like his mouth moved before his brain caught up. He hurries to elaborate. "I feel like bumming smokes off each other qualifies you for first name basis."

Kim considers that for a minute. Technically it's an offer being extended to him. There's no need, strictly speaking, to return the sentiment; Du Bois has been calling him Deacon the whole time, regardless of context, without hesitation. Kim doesn't interact with many people who have seen him in both a religious and secular context, so this is something without precedent.

"I don't believe we see each other regularly enough for it to mean much," he begins, and Du Bois actually looks disappointed. "But if you insist, Harry."

Du Bois—Harry—smiles. It's baffling how easy the detective is to please. An oddity, for such a strange man to be so predictable in this regard.

More hesitantly, Kim continues. "You don't need to call me Deacon all the time. Kim is fine."

"Even if you're in your deacon getup?"

Kim huffs out a weak laugh. "I don't imagine you'll see me in my clerical attire again anytime soon."

"Well, you never know. Maybe I will go back to church one of these days. Maybe even..." Wherever Du Bois intends to go with that sentence, its conclusion never sees the light of day. His expression sours, a displeased twist to his mouth. "I could use some absolution."

Kim tilts his head, looks at Du Bois at a new angle out of the corner of his eye. "Couldn't we all," he says. There's no humor in his voice.

Harry looks at him for a long moment, lips parted, having inhaled to begin talking but reconsidering halfway through. He comes to some sort of conclusion and gently, unexpectedly, places a hand on Kim's shoulder. Kim's too startled to remember to jump. "You should go home, Kim," Du Bois says in a tone that brooks no argument. "You did everything you could. We'll take it from here."

He squeezes, once, in an oddly uncertain gesture, and then lets go and walks away before Kim can think of a response. All he can get himself to do is stare at Harry's retreating back.

It's laughably transparent that Harry was only staying to try and comfort him, but that doesn't mean he wasn't right. Kim has no business here. 

He rolls the shoulder that Harry touched. Cigarette in hand, he feels a little more collected. Enough, at least, for him to put Leon's body behind him and go home.

He shouldn't have been so affected in the first place. How selfish of him, to think only of his own tepid guilt. These things happen. All he can do now is pray for that poor boy's soul.

* * *

The Ryu family doesn't attend mass the Sunday that follows. 

Somehow, the absence of four people is glaring, a hole in the congregation that Kim half expects to swallow everyone else when he isn't looking. Kim keeps searching for those familiar faces long after it's clear they aren't coming. The family is rigidly punctual. Few things could keep them from church on a Sunday morning.

In his almost compulsive scans of the congregation, Kim only distantly makes note of a new face: a generic Revacholian man, the kind you see twenty times in a week. Brown hair, neat in a church service way, not out of habit. He’s identifiable as new only by the way he sits in the back, drawn in on himself and separate from everyone else, fiddling with sleeves he can’t decide whether to roll up or not. Maybe if Kim was in a more charitable mood, he'd be willing to welcome an apparent newcomer. Today, he just feels sick. 

What bothers him most is that nobody else seems to notice. Maybe people do notice, but are too polite to mention, too committed to maintaining the veneer of normality above all else. This is an occurrence to be whispered about later, in the excited tones that come with gossip, not concern.

Vague nausea sits heavy in the pit of Kim's stomach throughout the service. Reverend Giroux speaks of infallible divine will. Kim thinks of a boy dragged off to die in the dark, left at the mercy of human cruelty.

At the first possible moment Kim exits through a side door, in desperate need of fresh air and uncaring about how impolite he may look to anyone who sees him. Where the inside of the church was suffocating, the outside is too open. Even knowing there are no prying eyes here at the moment, Kim feels far too vulnerable. He tucks himself into a corner and holds his head in his hands, just letting himself breathe for a long moment.

Kim doesn't let himself smoke at church, even if no one's around. Not because he's afraid someone will see, or because he thinks the act will soil the church's sanctity, or something. Rather, he needs to set hard limits, and keep to them. It proves something. It keeps him from sliding.

He really wants to break that rule right now. He won't, can't anyways—no cigarettes on him right now, and he'd never feel comfortable bumming one off a member of the congregation. But he wants to. Instead, he pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes, shakes his head, inhales deeply and stands up straight.

Something seems off to him, finding himself alone. It was hard to make out when he was focused in on the sound of his breathing, but Kim could've sworn he heard the click of the door opening—or closing.

When he reenters the church, nothing is out of order. There are no new faces. Kim can't fathom why he would have expected anything else, but some part of him is still disappointed.

* * *

The next time Kim sees the Ryu family, they're arranging the funeral service with the church. He gives them his condolences. He doesn't tell them he was the one who found their son's body. Some part of him is unable to quell the irrational suspicion that they already know, that it's clung to him, surrounded him, as if Leon's spirit had somehow attached to him in that one moment of contact and left him with an aura of death.

"He is at peace now," says Leon's father in a watery voice. It's a slow, stilted sentence, an inadequate turn of phrase substituting for a much more complex sentiment. Even if Mr. Ryu really wanted to express it, Kim doubts he'd be able to find the words.

Kim nods, but he doesn't think either of them believes it.

* * *

Two days after the funeral, Kim wakes up in darkness. His arms are crossed over his chest. Trying to move them, he finds his path obstructed and quickly discovers that he's enclosed in a box. A coffin. Not awake after all, he concludes, resigned.

With all his willpower, Kim relaxes. He maneuvers his arms around to his sides, takes long, deep breaths until the beating of his heart in his ears slows to a more reasonable pace. The downside, of course, is that if his heartbeat isn't the central percussion of this dream, things soon become horrifically quiet. When darkness and silence are absolute, depriving the brain of the stimuli it craves, it doesn't know what to do.

Kim tries not to keep his eyes open in this dream. The experience of staring and seeing nothing is disorienting; colorful dots swim in his vision, breaking up the monotony of the pitch black that surrounds him. He thinks it better to choose not to see than to find oneself unable to, even if there's no real difference. A little less harsh, the first way.

Usually when the dream goes this way, Kim wakes up before the air starts getting thin, finds himself in bed with his muscles tensed, jaw clenched, head aching. Most of the time he doesn't get to the point where he suffocates. 

The wait is still excruciating.

When he first thinks he hears something, Kim ignores it. Lacking any real sound, his hearing must have decided to play tricks on him. Yes, this is a dream, anything can happen—but it's a dream with an outline, and sounds other than his own heartbeat or soil raining down on wood are simply not part of that outline. If nothing else, at this point the patterns of Kim's brain are reliable.

But the sound doesn't go away. It gets louder, harder to deny, takes on shape and ceases to be just a nebulous vibration. Music. Rhythm.

Kim can't help opening his eyes on instinct. The melody is starting to become distinct now. Disco. He's dreaming of being buried alive and listening to _disco music._

If he were to analyze what this indicates about the state of his psyche, Kim would say he is probably going insane.

Not just music, voices now, too. The words are impossible to make out, muffled by several feet of earth and overpowered by whatever song is playing, but the emotion comes through. There's a gathering of people somewhere above him, being loud and exuberant.

This is a dream. If Kim shouts, kicks at the wood surrounding him, will they hear? Will they care? Will his cries for help only become a part of their joyous backdrop, indistinguishable from the sounds of a crowd of people dancing?

This is a dream. He won't actually die, if he runs out of air in here. But the few times he hasn't woken up before the slow choking started, it's felt real, at least as far as he can tell. He's woken up with his blanket tangled around him like a noose, the collar of his shirt suddenly restricting. He takes slow, deep breaths out of habit, trying not to waste the meager resources his mind has decided to provide him. Yelling, kicking, would reduce his supply to nothing in a matter of minutes.

This is a dream. What would he get, anyway, from being dug out of his early grave? Maybe he'd just wake up. Or he'd find himself in the midst of a group of strangers, expressing horror and pity in equal measure, doubt creeping in at the edges. Why was this man down there? Who is he?

This is a dream. Maybe once he got out he'd fly.

Kim wakes up sweating, nauseous. His throat is too choked up to even think of speaking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first scene of this chapter includes a brief, non-graphic description of a dead body whose implied cause of death is overdose. The last section of the chapter, starting with "Two days after the funeral" to the end, is one of those dreams about being buried alive which is thematically relevant but not technically necessary to understand the fic.
> 
> Find me on tumblr [@transgayming.](https://transgayming.tumblr.com)


	3. the depths of looking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Kim were inclined towards personification, he might say that loneliness has been his lifelong friend. He prefers to think that God holds that position. In a way, it’s almost comforting to think that there’s a force out there who he doesn’t need to spill his secrets to, who understands wordlessly and comprehensively. It’s also, he’ll admit, a little terrifying. Maybe people should be a little more terrified of what it means to be loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't believe there's any necessary warnings for this chapter, but if you think I should give a heads-up for something, please tell me!

The Ryus start attending mass again, eventually. If anything, their heads bow lower in prayer. Plenty of unfamiliar faces crop up over the next few weeks. Coming up on the end of the year people tend to have resurgences of faith, or at least feel a renewed sense of obligation. The space becomes crowded, bodies packed together, bundled up for warmth. Kim meets new churchgoers who are much the same as the others he knows, and doesn’t expect to see many of them again.

Ice coats the roads of Revachol. The cold saps car batteries. When he passes by the scene of an accident, Kim doesn't look too closely. Another police car comes into the shop—a mundane accident, nothing exciting. Kim doesn't speak with the officer it belongs to any more than necessary.

With small deviations, the routine of his life remains intact.

The end of the year seems to engender the spirit of change or at least self-consciousness in most people. Kim supposes it makes him thoughtful as well. Not quite half a year ago, he started working at the Church of Our Lady's Light, a change that corresponded with moving to a new place in Central Jamrock. Apart from the obvious changes that come with relocating, the structure of his life stayed largely intact. Most of the necessary rearranging was internal.

Moving—even if, all things considered, the distance from his old apartment isn't that great—had been a fresh start. Kim hadn't been in dire need of one, but it was a welcome opportunity to reframe his life and neaten things up around the edges. The loss of the community he had previously been part of was really no loss at all.

For all that church makes up most of his limited social life, Kim wouldn't have called himself close friends with anyone back at the Hope for Humanity Church. He had friendly acquaintances, certainly, church friends who he still maintains polite contact with, but he's always been a private man and he has no intentions of changing that. Being open with people you see regularly doesn't pay. That he'd learned through trial and error.

Kim doesn’t relish not being understood, but it’s a part of life. It’s a larger part of his life than it is for most people, true, and as much a shield as it is a nuisance. Even if he knows he won’t see someone again, honesty is a tool, applying pressure to achieve a desired result. People love to draw their own conclusions. It’s the easiest thing in the world to let them.

If Kim were inclined towards personification, he might say that loneliness has been his lifelong friend. He prefers to think that God holds that position. In a way, it’s almost comforting to think that there’s a force out there who he doesn’t need to spill his secrets to, who understands wordlessly and comprehensively. It’s also, he’ll admit, a little terrifying. Maybe people should be a little more terrified of what it means to be loved.

The thought comes up, floating to his mind from the depths of his consciousness, when Reverend Giroux asks him to preach the homily for the New Year’s Eve midnight mass. But even though Giroux is willing to concede this, knowing the limits of his old age, he tells Kim very clearly what his expectations are. In any case, it’s not what people would want to hear, and it’s far too personal; Kim’s not sure he knows how to get across what he really means. 

Forgiveness from sin, the gift of grace, the need to accomplish good works, not to squander a fresh start: these are familiar phrases, well-worn like a smooth stone to the point of eroding into near-nothingness. For good reason, though. They’re not sentiments to be disparaged, necessarily.

No doubt Kim will see many people tonight that he won’t find in this church for another year, listening to the same phrases preached from the same mouth. There are worse things to hear ad nauseam.

For the event, the church is lit up bright, one of a thousand buildings glowing for the festivities until the city is filled with light. A significant percentage of the congregation files in from parties, with parties, buzzing in cheery conversation. The result is an orchestra of light and sound in which no one element can be clearly distinguished.

Kim squints and sweats beneath his vestments. He would never say so, but it's discomfiting when the church is this full and this active. Stage fright, he supposes, is a factor in the unique unease he feels tonight. Acting as a stand-in for the actual priest of this church in front of a large crowd would make most people nervous.

Once it's over he barely remembers what he said. He doubts the congregation will either, and he doesn't begrudge them, smiling faces all drunk on the warm atmosphere if not actual alcohol.

When a clearly tired Giroux dismisses the congregation, they disperse in uneven clumps. Many of them start singing, snatches of garbled familiar tunes, and most of them are laughing. Slowly, the volume lowers, the lights dim.

Kim tells Father Giroux that he'll lock up, so go home and get some rest, and it's a testament to just how exhausted the old man is that he agrees to it. 

"Happy new year, Deacon," Giroux tells him, voice grave, eyes keen. "I haven't thanked you for your work enough the last year. This year I'll do better. You are," he says, slowly, the words coming unnaturally to him, "a blessing to this church."

"Happy new year, Father," Kim returns, warmed by the compliment, however gruffly it was delivered. "Have a good night. Get home safe."

Giroux waves off his concern, of course, and walks away at a defiant pace. He is admittedly spry for a man newly sixty, but his determination to carry on with life like a much younger man can't be doing him many favors. Kim has had to pry administrative responsibilities out of his grasp when coaxing proved ineffective. It's no surprise Giroux hasn't thanked him much for it, but he's never doubted that the man respected him, and that's enough. He doesn't need the priest to be his friend. Both of them, he's sure, prefer it that way.

Though colloquially referred to as midnight mass, for convenience's sake the actual service is held a few hours before midnight. By the time Kim has completed some other minor tasks and left the building, the new year has begun. 

He starts it alone, standing in front of an empty church and making sure the doors are locked. Then he turns around and his misconception is quickly cleared.

By the curb, someone is sitting, hunched over. Whoever it is is humming, a faint, melancholy tune Kim can’t quite make out. Either they haven’t noticed him, or they’re choosing to ignore him. 

The church is dark, now; it’s just the moon and a streetlight on the corner illuminating this patch of land, a void in the middle of the city still aglow. No normal, well-adjusted person would be here at midnight on New Year’s, sitting alone in the dark when most everyone is celebrating with friends and family. 

He could just leave. It’s the sensible thing to do. 

Someone else could just leave, if someone else was in Kim’s place, but Kim knows _he_ can’t. Between his wariness and his concern, concern, unfortunately, has a tendency to win out. Against his better judgment, he steps forward and clears his throat. “If you wanted to attend the New Year’s service, I’m afraid you’re too late.”

The humming stops. Kim clenches his jaw tight and only just resists the urge to step back when the stranger, with some effort, stands up and turns around to face him, a little unsteady on their feet.

In the dim lighting, it takes him a moment to resolve the features of the face he sees into a person he can recognize—just as long as it takes for Harry Du Bois to say, cheerfully, “Hey, Kim,” in the same tone of voice as if they’d just coincidentally run into each other in a grocery store. Kim can’t shake the strange feeling that he somehow conjured the detective out of nothingness. If he blinks, Du Bois might disappear.

Harry’s still there when Kim opens his eyes again. He’s standing on the street, and with Kim on the sidewalk their height difference is more than evened out. Harry has no jacket—he must be freezing—his tie is half-loosened around his neck, his shirt untucked, one crumpled sleeve pushed up to his elbow and steadily descending as he stands there. Radiating awkwardness, Harry ducks his head, brings his hand up to scratch at his chin in a graceless motion. “I, uh, thought about it. The service. Had other plans, that…” He exhales heavily, lifts his head to reveal a smile that’s more of a grimace. “Happy new year, Kim. It’s midnight, right?”

Kim’s pretty sure Harry’s at least a little drunk. He’s speaking with exaggerated care, enunciating too clearly. And abandoning plans to sit in front of a church in the middle of the night is not sober behavior. “Happy new year, officer,” he returns, courtesy kicking in before conscious thought. “What are you doing here?”

“I didn’t know where else to go.” Harry winces as he says it, clearly aware of how stupid it sounds. “I guess I, um.” He pauses. When he speaks again, his tone is suddenly thoughtful. “Can you do the… forgiveness thing? I tell you I fucked up and then we—me and, and God—we’re cool. New year’s as good a time as any.”

“I can’t. In any case, the church is closed. You should go home.” Kim’s distantly aware that his tone is clipped, devoid of emotion. Offering comfort is past his capabilities right now, his brain power occupied by puzzling out what Du Bois is doing here and what should be done with him. “Did you drive here?” He doesn't see the detective's car anywhere, but surely Harry didn't walk all the way here from wherever he lives without a jacket on.

“No,” Harry says mournfully, “I shouldn’t.”

Kim chooses to assume the ‘no’ applies to his actual question as well. Of course the only option here is to get Harry home, though it looks like he’s going to have to be talked around to it. Which Kim doesn't feel qualified for, but he does feel obligated, no matter how uncomfortable this encounter is already.

For now, he acquiesces. "Alright, then." Direct questions about Harry's self-imposed exile are out. Kim's best hope is to nudge Harry towards certain topics, get him talking so Kim has more information to work with. "I'm… surprised. I didn't think I would ever see you at church off the job."

"Actually, I—" Harry cuts himself off, reconsidering whatever it is he's about to say for a few seconds before deciding to go ahead anyway. "After, after the kid, I came by."

What?

"But, uh, you seemed kind of… preoccupied." Kim barely registers what Harry is saying, too busy scouring his memory for any sign of the detective. "And I thought about it, and his family… Be weird, if I was around. Regularly. So, I left."

He thinks—maybe—without his jacket, without prior warning, Kim hadn't recognized Du Bois that Sunday. Not that he'd been entirely mentally present then. "I see," says Kim, faintly.

"I guess I could go to some other church, but… this one is closest, and you're here. I mean," Harry adds on too quickly, "I've never really, you know, so going somewhere where I don't know anyone is. Freaks me out. So since then, I haven't gone to church. Any church. Uh, until now."

"Because you wanted to confess?"

"...Kind of?" It's an attempt to appease more than it is an answer, and a weak one at that. Not two seconds later Harry sighs and says, "Not really. I didn't—it popped into my head, when I realized you were here, but I didn't think anyone would be here this late. The service was earlier."

Kim says plainly, not even pretending it's a question, "You wanted to be alone."

The reply is sharp, almost petulant. "I don't _want_ to. I just needed to, to sit and think a while. Cool off. Thought here would work." Harry ducks his head again, fiddles with the button of his shirt cuff.

Somehow it's a perfectly normal peculiarity, that the detective's first instinct for a place to cool off would be a church he's been to two times before that's closed for the night. He had an argument with someone… maybe? Kim's starting to regret not saying one little white lie and telling Harry he could hear his confession. It would have been much easier to sit there and let him spill his woes by himself.

Instead, Kim breathes in and out slowly, resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, careful not to make himself seem disapproving or exasperated. No sudden movements, like Harry is a wild animal Kim doesn't want to scare off. Calm, dry, Kim says, "I imagine your original plans for the new year were wholly unrelated to church."

Harry chuckles weakly. "Yeah." That stops his fidgeting. "Uh, at the precinct, everyone wanted to do something big for New Year's, or as big as we could afford, at least. Which really just, everyone wanted an excuse to get shitfaced on someone else's money." 

His expression is fond, clearly reminiscing of similar celebrations in the past, but the wan smile on his face is wholly unconvincing and rapidly fading. Dread settles somewhere in Kim's chest. "Did something happen?"

"What? No." Harry pauses after the knee-jerk reaction, amends, "I don't think so. I didn't actually… go. Honestly, they might still be at it."

"Why not join them, then?"

"I said I wouldn't be coming. If I show up, now, like—this," Harry gestures towards his current state of dishabille, "it's—they're not all the best detectives, some of them are shit honestly, but it'll be obvious what happened."

He sighs, rubs a stain on his shirt between finger and thumb. "And now you're going to ask what happened."

Kim waits.

"I don't—I'm not sure, that I want to talk about it, with… you. Um. It's not—fuck." 

Kim raises an eyebrow, but remains silent.

"Sorry. Sorry." Harry holds out his hands in a placating gesture. "I don't mean… it's just—you said that, uh, as part of the whole deacon thing, you can't get married. Do you ever… regret that?"

There's no need for Kim to be honest, here. He can't imagine what Harry's getting at. Most likely it's an attempt to divert attention from the situation at hand. But for some reason, instead of just saying "No," he goes on. "I never really saw marriage in my future in the first place."

"But you can do the ceremony, where people get married. You don't get jealous or anything?"

Where is this going? "I haven't officiated any weddings yet, personally. Those kinds of things don't bother me at this point."

And then, of all things, Harry smiles. A pitiful smile, self-deprecating, but it doesn't seem forced, and that makes seeing it all the more disturbing. "Yeah, I thought so," he says. "You're, you're too cool for that, Kim. You have it figured out. You wouldn't—"

Kim cuts him off. "I think you have the wrong impression of me, officer."

"Officer, again," Harry notes. "Not my name. I'm off the job right now." The words catch midway, something about the phrase makes him falter. "Just Harry."

"Alright. Harry." That seems to mollify him. "If you don't want to tell me what happened, that's fine. But you should go home. I can drive you," Kim offers, wishing he didn't mean it.

Harry shakes his head. "I really shouldn't."

"A friend's place, then. I won't leave you here alone."

"You should," Harry retorts. "I shouldn't have come here. If I knew you were here—dammit."

Kim deadpans, "I'm sorry that my presence is an inconvenience in your quest to freeze to death. I won't do it again." He steps to the side, in the direction of the staff parking lot. "For now, though, would you please come with me?"

He takes another step, cautious, unsure if Harry will actually follow him or if he'll have to figure out some way to drag him there despite the clear size disadvantage. He's halfway through figuring out how to coax Harry's address out of him if he's unwilling when Harry sighs and steps up onto the pavement after him.

Kim can't help but think Harry's demeanor in this moment is not unlike a sad dog, following closely behind Kim on the short walk to the staff parking lot. His awareness of the other man's presence behind him raises the hairs on the back of his neck. Combined with the fact that Harry was willing to do as he said, even reluctantly, it's… strange.

He shouldn't overthink it. After all, the man is drunk.

They walk in silence. One flickering lamp oversees the small lot, painfully yellow. Kim's not sure if he'd prefer Harry to be talking, so he could get some kind of glimpse into his thoughts. Whatever happened must have been at home—Vicquemare mentioned a 'girl at home' way back when, Kim remembers foggily, that must relate to the marriage tangent—Harry seems to be under the impression that Kim… wouldn't understand? Would disapprove? What could have happened to him—

Reaching into his pocket to retrieve his keys, Kim stumbles over his own feet in shock. It hasn't even crossed his mind, he realizes, that _Harry_ might have done something. What a ridiculous lapse of judgment.

There's a hand at his elbow, steadying him. Kim swallows and rights himself, turns to face Harry, who looks down at him with concern.

He clears his throat. "Technically, I'm not qualified, but—if you want to—I can hear your confession. Whatever you say, I promise I'll be impartial. It's not about condemnation," Kim assures, putting as much goodwill into the statement as he can, "it's about penance."

Harry blinks. "Oh," he says, and steps back a little. "I know I brought it up, but I don't know that… I mean, I'm not one hundred percent clear on how it works," he wiggles one hand in an uncertain gesture, "but I'm under the impression that I'm supposed to tell you, uh, the things I did wrong."

"More or less."

"But the—the real, the core problem of the whole thing is, I don't know what I did wrong. Or," Harry corrects himself, frowning, "I don't know that I could've done anything right. Unless I went back in time and prevented all this from happening, I… I don't know."

Kim doesn't let himself feel relieved to hear something that's all plausible deniability and no real answers. "Well, this is an informal confession, so there's no need to worry about the specifics. Your best guess will do."

Harry goes silent. They're better illuminated here, and Kim can see clearly that Harry is deep in thought, brow furrowed, that his forehead is damp with sweat, despite the cold. 

He looks exhausted.

Some conclusion is reached, it seems; Harry straightens up and looks at Kim with a keen focus. "Why are you doing this?"

There are multiple ways to interpret that. Harry speaks softly, pained, but not accusatory. None of the words have any particular emphasis. Nothing Harry has said until now has indicated anger.

Disbelief. He doesn't think that he deserves the effort to be understood, or not from Kim, at least. 

"Harry," Kim says, and meets his eyes with an even gaze. "The last time we met, I'd found the dead body of someone I knew and I was panicking." He can admit that now. "You stayed and calmed me down. This—"

"Is you repaying a debt?"

"If you want to look at it that way." Kim doesn't. Call it naivety or a bleeding heart, but viewing the world in terms of debts has never sat right with him. Yes, he supposes he owes it to Harry, but even if it had been a stranger by the curb, leaving them there wouldn't be an option. That's not something Harry needs to know, though, and it's not what he wants to hear.

Silence again. Harry covers his mouth with his hand, rocks back onto his heels and looks up at the sky, where the light pollution has rendered any stars invisible. His eyes shine with what might be tears. The possibility is extinguished with a few rapid blinks.

"I don't," he announces with a sense of finality, "want to look at it that way. I don't want to confess like—like this is." Harry looks away from the sky, takes his hand from his mouth and gestures between them, almost frantic. "This is some kind of, professional thing or you're making it up to me. If you don't actually want to listen—"

"If I didn't want to," Kim speaks over him, voice level but loud enough to be heard, "we wouldn't be here."

Harry's shoulders drop. "No," he says, resigned, "I guess not,” and he takes a breath, braces himself, and tells Kim what happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woof, this scene is a monster that did not want to cooperate with me. I had to rewrite it three times to get it where I wanted it, believe it or not. I also originally wanted to put it in chapter 2, then that fell through, so I tried to combine it with what will now be chapter 4, but... it really just has to be its own chapter. So the chapter count's gone up to 5, sorry lol. 
> 
> Find me on tumblr [@transgayming](https://transgayming.tumblr.com).


	4. the width of jerusalem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So Kim says, as calmly as he can manage, "No one is perfect, officer. But we're all trying."
> 
> "Some of us have to try harder, though, don't we?" Harry isn't necessarily implying Kim is part of that 'we,' even if he is staring at him, tone light but face deathly serious. 
> 
> Kim doesn't say, _That's our burden to bear._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for warnings.

Kim thinks he can be forgiven for considering other things while Harry fumbles through retelling his disaster of an evening. Harry's storytelling is roundabout, full of stops and starts, hesitant rephrasings and long, pained silences. It's not like Kim has tuned him out entirely; he's still processing, picking out the key information. He has to. He'd do this for anyone in need—

But that's what his mind is stuck on, refusing to let go. Does he have to? Would he do this for someone else? He wouldn't have assumed the innocence of someone else in this situation, and that's not excused by him knowing Harry, because he doesn't. Kim's encountered the detective three times before, and he certainly doesn't know anything about his home life. Despicable people can appear polite, even charming in public. Assuming Harry had been wronged and not the other way around was nothing short of idiotic. And though he's considering the possibility, he still can't really convince himself that it would be true.

If he'd found anyone else sitting by the curb, Kim would have been concerned. He would've offered help, tried to get them to a safe place for the night. That's what he's doing now with Harry, except it isn't.

Harry is talking about expectations, about honesty, about wanting what you know you can't have, and Kim is listening to him because he wants to. _This_ isn't something he'd do for someone else. He'd want an explanation, but an efficient one. He certainly wouldn't have been willing to resort to a lengthy, indirect method of wheedling out information when a direct question in a firm voice would suffice if repeated enough times.

What makes Harry different? It's a ridiculous question, because Harry isn't like anyone else Kim knows. He needs to look at it from another angle.

If he hadn’t been interrupted, Kim would've said, "This is the same." Him offering to drive Harry home, Harry staying to offer comfort and a smoke—they didn't have to do it, but neither of them could have just left. All the same, Kim knows he's handling Harry… carefully? Gently? In a different way than he'd treat other people.

And he's not an idiot. He can tell that Harry has formed some kind of attachment to him, though it's for the best that Kim doesn't think about it too much or, God forbid, openly acknowledge it. For both of their sakes.

Maybe he shouldn't be doing this, Kim tells himself, as if it isn't already too late. Nothing good can come of making an active effort to comfort Harry, to—appease him. To, for some fucking reason, care about saying or doing something that would hurt his feelings. They're not friends. Harry would get over it.

"Sorry," Harry mutters, "I'm not really—I'm rambling."

Kim assures him, "It's alright. Take your time." 

What's the worst that could happen? He knows he's not going to see the detective regularly. It's midnight on New Year's Day, and time and space feel like distant concepts. Consequences are far away. 

He's allowed to be kind to someone on a personal level. And that—Kim can't bear thinking about that for too long, so he lets the subject drop, mentally, and listens. This isn't about him.

* * *

The explanation Kim coaxes from Harry in fits and starts is, at best, lacking years of vitally important background information; at worst, it is so skewed by bias and alcohol as to be little better than fiction. Kim doesn't think Harry is consciously lying to him, and he hopes Harry isn't subconsciously trying to portray himself as someone he isn't. By the end, he can be reasonably certain of a few things.

At one point, a speck on the horizon by now, Harry was in love with his fiancée and she was in love with him. At least, Harry believed this to be true. The prospect of marriage has long been a point of contention between them and is by now a total non-starter, which Kim thinks is probably a sign that it's not true any longer, and maybe hasn't been for a while. Other points of contention include: finances, drinking, working hours, insistence on working after hours, emotional unavailability. Those can effectively be condensed down to issues with Harry's work as an RCM officer.

These factors seem to have not so much caused as coalesced into an argument. Kim believes—wants to believe, too, but he really does believe—that it was, effectively, mutually instigated and restrained to verbal attacks.

As Harry approaches the end of his recollection, Kim doesn't think the argument was winnable by either side.

"She said she _wished_ I was cheating on her, because," Harry runs one hand through his hair, speaking quickly, desperately, "because she could—fight another woman, she could scream at me, it would be easier, it would be cleaner than, than losing me to my fucking job. And I told her that when we first met I was already an officer, I was already committed, and she told me to—"

The expression on his face is anguished. There's no other word for it. Harry's mired in the pain he felt in that one, horrible moment, unable to move on now that he's forcing himself to relive it.

"She said," he continues, after a long pause, voice shaky and soft, "'If you're so committed, then get out, go live with your actual wife, then,' and she was—crying, but I, nothing I could say would—" He gestures helplessly, lost, staring at nothing. "So I left. I just, I didn't even take my jacket, I left and I just started walking. The first Frittte I saw, I went in and I spent all the change in my pockets, and I kept walking, in any direction, trying to get absolutely shitfaced."

Harry halts, his breaths labored. There's a shift as he loses the frantic drive, the need to push through to the end of the story. Without it, it's harder to avoid reality pressing in around him. "I passed by so many people who looked at me like… and I couldn't take it."

Pity can hurt more than a slap to the face. Kim knows this. He doesn't say anything.

"I knew that the service would be over. I kept thinking about it, is the thing," Harry almost laughs, sounding more choked than anything. "I kept thinking, _if I had gone maybe this wouldn't have happened,_ you know. Fucking stupid," he spits, "but I kept— _if I had gone, at least I would have gotten something out of it,_ instead of—" 

He covers his eyes with one hand and sighs heavily. "Figured at least I could go now and no one else would be there." And then drags the hand down his face so it covers his nose and mouth, so he can stare over his fingers at Kim. "Who would be in an empty church at midnight on New Year's Day, I thought." 

His tone isn't accusatory, exactly, but there's something about the direct way he stares at Kim, the flatness of Harry's statement, that's unnerving. Kim doesn't know the exact timeline or how much Harry drank, but he's certain that however hard Harry tried to get shitfaced earlier he's well on his way to sober by now. That kind of keen focus is unmistakable. 

Harry blinks, glances to the side, and Kim feels an invisible weight lift from his shoulders. "What a long way to say 'I got into a fight with my girl and she kicked me out,' huh," he says with a self-deprecating twist to his lips. He hasn't once referred to his fiancée by name, if she can be called his fiancée at this point. Kim decides not to read into it too much.

"I'm not sure it would be ideal confession etiquette," he replies, matter-of-fact, "but personally, I prefer to know all the necessary information. Thank you for telling me all this, Harry. I…" He needs to say something, but what could possibly encompass all that? "I'm sorry."

Kim turns, keys in hand, ready to close the few feet to the passenger side door and finally get Harry home.

Harry's voice stops him before he's taken two steps. "So what's the verdict?"

"Excuse me?"

"I've never… done a confession, before, but don't you say something, or…"

Right. Kim had mostly wanted to make sure that driving Harry back to his house wouldn't be putting anyone in danger, but he's not going to say that. He deliberates for a moment. 

"I think," Kim says at length, "this is between you and your fiancée, officer, not you and God." He starts to turn back towards the car, but stops himself halfway. "And I think no matter what was said, she would prefer you were safe at home, not freezing on the streets."

Harry sighs heavily, a mumble somewhere in there that might be a reluctant agreement. Kim assumes it is and walks the few feet necessary to put him in front of the passenger side door. Unlocking it feels concrete, grounding. The turn of the key marks the boundary between the confession and the drive home, brings them out of uncomfortable honesty back to a safe emotional distance.

Kim thinks so, at least. Then he turns around, finds Harry standing directly behind him, and freezes in surprise.

He didn't hear footsteps. It seems the detective can be quiet, when it suits him. Harry's clearly studying Kim, standing with his back straight and his head cocked slightly to the side, hands in his pockets. Their difference in height isn't extreme, but at this near a distance the feeling that Harry is looming over him is impossible to shake.

"Officer—" Kim begins, then falters as he realizes he has no idea what to say next. 

There's no visible reaction from Harry. Maybe Kim only thought the word, and forgot to say it. 

"You get it, don't you?" Harry asks, quietly. The question is probing, but it's the vulnerability in it that rattles Kim—Harry hopes for confirmation just as much as he thinks he's right. "I thought you'd just pity me. I thought, Kim would never have something like this happen to him. He'd know better. But you… you get it. You're a little fucked up too."

It's only with great effort that Kim manages to keep his expression impassive. He—Harry's drunk, and no doubt in a strange mental place. This is most likely his way of seeking comfort, commiserating. A way to feel less lonely in his misery. 

So Kim says, as calmly as he can manage, "No one is perfect, officer. But we're all trying."

"Some of us have to try harder, though, don't we?" Harry isn't necessarily implying Kim is part of that 'we,' even if he is staring at him, tone light but face deathly serious. 

Kim doesn't say, _That's our burden to bear._ He swallows. "Everyone's struggles are different. Some are more difficult than others. What matters is that with faith and perseverance, no obstacle cannot be overcome." With as much conviction as he can muster, he emphasizes, "It will get better."

At that, Harry ducks his head, fixing his gaze on the ground for several moments. His voice is gentle, when he finally speaks again. "It's not that I don't believe you, Kim, it's just—I don't know what better looks like."

"It can be hard to imagine—"

"What did it look like," Harry interjects, "for you?"

Kim can't find it within himself to bristle at the personal question, to deny his own fallibility, reject the idea he could ever suffer. He keeps his answer simple, nonetheless. "Stability," he says. "Peace of mind."

"Peace of mind," Harry repeats, and frowns slightly. "Not 'happiness' or 'friendship' or 'love?' I expected at least one of those." 

"I thought that was implied," Kim replies quickly, but not too quickly. "In any case, our two situations are different. It may be more productive to ask, what do you want better to look like?"

Harry huffs out something between a laugh and a sigh. "I have a bad habit of wanting what I know I can't have."

That's human nature, Kim thinks. Kim says, "What you know isn't always set in stone."

"I guess not. I guess it's not unimaginable that…" 

Whatever it is Harry's going to say next, Kim hopes it's not _one day this will be in the past and we'll get married._ He doesn't have the heart to tell Harry that's probably unrealistic.

"...that at some point, I won't feel like I'm always doing damage control. So I can actually make things better, instead of trying to keep them from getting worse."

Oh. Whatever expression Kim lets slip, it must look awful, because Harry kind of half-laughs again. "I think I—sometimes I feel like the only reason we stay with each other is because we've been together this long, might as well see it through. Because it could be worse." He shakes his head. "When I say that out loud… fuck, that's a shitty way to think of a relationship."

Harry pushes his hair back from his forehead, grimacing. "There's no coming back from this, is there?"

"I'm not the best judge of that," Kim tells him honestly. "Either way, that doesn't mean there's no moving forward."

Harry groans. "That's the most terrifying thing you could have said. You make it sound so simple." He worries at his lip for a moment, runs his hand through his hair. "I guess I… it sounds shitty to say I want to stop being scared of change. I know that this—" Harry makes a vague, all-encompassing gesture, "isn't working, but I feel like if anything changes the world will end. But something _has_ to. Maybe something already has, and I just don't want to see it."

He looks almost bemused by his own words, the silence that follows thoughtful rather than intentional. Kim wouldn't mind if Harry's thousand-yard stare wasn't focused on him.

"It's a perfectly alright thing to want," Kim says. "I believe that it’s achievable, as well." After a moment's thought, he takes his right hand and hesitates—then places it on Harry's shoulder, hoping the gesture comes across as comforting.

Harry looks at the hand on his shoulder for a little too long, to the point where Kim starts to regret the action. But then he manages a somewhat choked, "Thanks, Kim. I—Thanks. Sorry." He rubs at his nose with his sleeve. "I know this must be uncomfortable for you. Sorry."

Kim doesn't know what to say to that, so he clears his throat to stall for time, pats Harry's shoulder a little stiffly before returning his hand to his side. "Khm. Well. I… just want to help. No need to apologize."

"Right." It's abundantly clear that Harry was about to apologize again, and it's taking all of his willpower to prevent himself. It's also clear that he has no idea what to say in its place. "You've been… really nice. It's hard to believe it's for me."

Not a question, and Kim can't deny it, so he turns it around. "I'm sure you'd do the same for me," he says, with complete certainty.

"I guess I would," Harry muses, half to himself. "If you'd let me."

The statement hangs in the air, almost innocuous. Harry might not mean anything more, but there's something about the way he says it—soft, a little hesitant—that feels like asking a question.

And Kim could let it lie, but he can't shake the feeling that would be losing, a tacit yes to whatever Harry's asking. "What makes you think I wouldn't?"

"You keep calling me officer," Harry says, matter-of-fact, "when you're uncomfortable. When you want to create distance. You probably don't even think about it."

Is he right? He might be right. But that means Harry has been taking this in all along, constantly analyzing, searching for subtext—he's never off the job. Harry doesn't know how to not be a detective.

"I think about it," Harry continues. "I, uh. Think about you. A lot."

Which is an insane thing to say, which means it's fine, Harry is drunk, he doesn't mean it. Kim steps to the side; it's long past the time he should have simply gotten into the driver's seat and left. Harry steps with him, stops him with a gentle hand on his arm.

"I think meeting you was a change. A good change. If I'd known it was going to be I would never have talked to you, but I'm glad that I did. I would never have even thought about church before I met you. I guess it's not great that I really only want to go now because you'd be there, and you'd approve, but—"

"Harry," Kim says, urgent, because even if Harry is drunk there's only so much that can wipe away. Where this is going can't be anywhere good. "That's enough." 

But he doesn't tug his arm out of Harry's grip yet, even though he could. He will.

"I mean it," Harry assures him, as if that's the issue here. "I'm not drunk. You don't scare me." Paired, the two statements might as well cancel each other out.

"I'm glad to hear that." It's only just short of snapping, and Kim feels bad about it, distantly. "Let's get you home." He pulls his arm away.

"Kim—"

Kim turns, starts walking around to the driver's side. "We can do this another time, officer." Now that Harry pointed it out, he's aware of when he slips back into using the title. He's uncomfortable. Harry's too close. Dammit.

"No, you won't let me." Harry steps in front of him, grabs him by the shoulders. Kim doesn't meet his eyes. "Kim, please just listen to me."

"I won't be a distraction from your problems." This is snapping, now, and Kim doesn't feel bad for it.

There is a twinge of guilt when Kim sees Harry is genuinely upset by the idea. "You're not," he insists. "Honestly, you might be one of my problems. I can't stop thinking about you. I didn't think about why, for a while—"

Something with Kim's voice asks, hollow and raspy, "What's your verdict, then?"

Harry answers without skipping a beat. "You're really cool, Kim." His tone is almost reverent. "But you're also really lonely. And… I think you feel guilty. Not for something you did—not just for something you did. Something you are."

Kim goes very still. Harry's eyes are wide, and bright, and there's no judgment anywhere in them, no sign of condemnation. If anything, Harry looks like he's searching for something.

"I like you. A lot." The utter sincerity of the simple statement makes it into a dagger, aimed with precision, impossible to be misconstrued or diverted from its course. "And we wouldn't be here, I don't think, if you didn't like me at least a little. If meeting me wasn't a good change for you, too."

Kim says, "It was," or maybe he thinks it, but the way Harry is looking at him so desperately he knows the message came through either way.

And he meets Kim's eyes, and his face is inches away. "You don't have to be lonely."

Kim could be cruel, but he doesn't want to. He's not sure what cruelty is, here, whether it's asking Harry _don't you care about her_ or saying _I'm not going to help you ruin your life_ or whether it's letting—whether it's—He's never been as good a man as he wanted to be, but he should be better than this. He doesn't know what 'this' is. It's hard to conceptualize anything, to be aware of anything other than his heartbeat in his ears and the numbness in his fingertips. His surroundings are distant, indistinct, the world an afterthought as substantial as a dream. Harry's fiancée, whose name and face he doesn't know, might as well be a ghost. There is nowhere outside of the insanity of the here and now. 

Harry Du Bois is handsome. More than that, he's unique. Kim knows this, intellectually, information filed away into a dark corner of his brain, but he hasn't—Harry's not like anyone else Kim knows. He changes things, blurs the boundaries Kim has neatly set up between faith and secularity, between himself and the outside world. He cares about Kim. He wants to figure him out, even though no one's supposed to do that. 

Kim likes him, despite himself.

Kim is very lonely.

New Year's Eve is never going to be the same again, it occurs to him suddenly, and it's not funny but he has to try not to laugh anyway. Something needs to happen, something needs to release, this tightness in his chest, the buzzing beneath his skin.

He does have to be lonely. Harry doesn't understand that. That doesn't mean… 

"I don't want to be," he whispers, not even sure Harry can hear him.

Harry smiles at the admission, small, strangely melancholy. Kim can't bear to look at it for too long.

In the next moment the distance between them has disappeared and he's kissing Harry. Kissing him back. The distinction isn't clear, even as Harry presses him into the car, the cold of the metal seeping through the back of his shirt and dragging his mind away from himself, somewhere high in the air where it's easier to breathe.

He thinks he likes it better that way. 

But it's not so bad when Harry pulls back to say something which would undoubtedly be stupid, and Kim grabs the collar of his shirt to shut him up.

* * *

Harry lets—

Kim lets—

They stay there, for some amount of time that's too long to be justifiable. Not exactly embracing, touching just shy of intent. Breathing in an inconsistent rhythm.

It's Harry who pulls away first, looking at Kim like he's seeing someone else, someone beautiful. 

In the newfound space between them reality asserts itself. Something is poking into Kim's back. His ears are cold. In his pocket, his keys have rearranged themselves to jab into his leg.

And Harry—

It's Kim who says, looking up at the blue-black sky devoid of stars, "You should go home," before either of them does something else they'll both regret.

* * *

The light through the window is a muted blue-grey when Kim wakes up choking. 

It's his own fault. He'd expected to have the dream more often after the one following the funeral. Instead, the few dreams he remembers since then have been above ground, and his sleep has been more or less peaceful.

So when he found himself surrounded by darkness, trapped in a confined space, he couldn't help but panic, breathing fast and heavy before he processed what was going on. A waste of oxygen and an abundance of noise and feeling cloying his senses, making the space feel even smaller.

As a result, he has no way of knowing when the sound started. It was almost rhythmic; for a moment, he wondered if it was music again, and hoped it wasn't a repeat of the strange experience disco had been. But as his heartbeat calmed, allowing him to focus in on the sound, he noticed the irregularities. A decidedly non-musical sharpness to it.

A shovel, somewhere. Above him? Well, obviously. If he listened very closely, the patter of newly loosened dirt raining upon the ground.

Digging.

This was also his fault: his panic hadn't totally subsided. It's difficult to become accustomed to a dream about being buried alive. So the moment Kim recognized the sound for what it was, he started yelling for help.

He screamed until his throat was sore, he slammed his fists against the wood above him with all his might. Please, don't leave me down here. I'm alive. I don't want to die. Help me.

Adrenaline fueled him, made it difficult to tell how long his pleas went on. At some point, he had to stop, his knuckles raw, panting for breath. Listening closely to see if there was any sign that he'd been heard. That there was hope.

The sound was still there, still steady. Which—you wouldn't stop digging, if you realized someone was buried alive, but—Kim strained his ears, his heartbeat loud again, breath coming fast—

It hadn't gotten any closer. It was still distant, faint but unmistakable, impossible to place. Maybe it was coming from directly above him, maybe it was three feet to the left. 

Someone was digging, but they weren't digging him out.

Kim wakes up with the realization fresh in his mind, his forehead damp with sweat, his throat tight. He closes his eyes tight. For a minute or two he just lies there, breathing in deep just to prove to himself he can.

He's exhausted. But he's not going to get back to sleep.

Kim lingers for another minute or so before he musters the willpower to get up and trudge over to the bathroom. He doesn't bother getting his glasses. Instead, he tries to blink away the bleariness of sleep and navigates mostly by memory to the sink. He splashes water on his face, doesn't flinch from the cold, then flips the light on without thinking and winces at the sudden brightness.

Then he looks up and sees a face in the mirror. A man, hair sticking up in odd directions, dark circles under his eyes, water dripping from his chin. It's him, he knows, but the identity doesn't stick. This can't be him. Kim lifts up a hand, and the man in the mirror does too. He waves it, experimentally, not sure what he's expecting but unable to shake the feeling that this isn't right, daring the man in the mirror to blink first.

Considering Kim went to sleep feeling this way, it shouldn't be a surprise that it carried over. Somehow it is. The world of last night—early this morning, he supposes—couldn't feel farther away.

Kim doesn't remember driving Du Bois home. He knows he did; if he thinks hard enough, he can conjure up the image of the street where the officer lives, the feel of the wheel under his hands as he turned the corner. But it feels more like a dream than a memory, like an old recording fuzzy with static. The Kim that did those things was, is another Kim out of his control.

He remembers—being startled when Du Bois' hand touched the arm, his arm, crossing the invisible divide between them to mumble thank you and goodbye. He remembers the sudden awareness of sound following that touch: the sound of the engine idling suddenly unbearable, the sound of Harry opening and closing the car door, the sound of his footsteps receding before the Kim in the dream turned his gaze back to the road and drove off.

Courtesy would dictate that he make sure Harry got inside safely before leaving, but that was never really in doubt. Watching him step through that doorway would have been going too far, Kim knows, even if he can't explain why. Which is really a drop in the ocean when it comes to discourteous behavior, but just because he did something worse doesn't make it okay to—

He remembers that it took him a long time to get to sleep after he got home. Then he woke up choking. And now he's staring at himself in the bathroom mirror.

Kim feels like shit. Physically, and mentally, and, God, morally. There's so much to untangle that he won't, if he knows what's good for him. Clearly, he doesn't. But it's the new year, the time for change, even if Kim started it off—speaking generously—backsliding.

He feels guilty. At least his sense of morality is still functioning. But he can't conclusively assign the feeling to any of the myriad things that probably deserve it. 

He wishes he knew what the right thing was to feel guilty about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may be able to guess from it taking longer, this chapter gave me some trouble while writing it. It's also a bit longer than the others, but I didn't want to cut it any shorter than it is.
> 
> This chapter and the next get into the meat of the infidelity and internalized homophobia mentioned in the tags, which I hope will have warned off people who don't want to read anything that involves those subjects. If not, here's your heads up. 
> 
> The last section of this chapter includes one of those dreams about being buried alive, as well as a description of a character dissociating.
> 
> Find me on tumblr [@transgayming](https://transgayming.tumblr.com).


	5. the lengths we go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes Kim a week to settle into himself again, reacclimate to his own body. It takes another to succeed in scrubbing away imaginary filth from his skin. 
> 
> The third week he dreams of premature burials. The fourth week, he doesn't think about Du Bois at all. By the fifth, that's what disturbs him the most.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I... am very sorry this chapter took so long (and also that I added another chapter to the count. Can you believe I originally thought this fic would be 3 chapters? I'm horrible at estimating length.) 
> 
> The explanation boils down to a variety of Life Problems, And Also School that meant I did little to no writing for a solid while. But I'm determined to see this fic through, so here's the penultimate chapter! I will try my best to get the last one out before three months this time.
> 
> As a bonus, [here's](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6g7Zfw91yb7VTJpKCk213U?si=i5YL8m8yQZKbgIINWu2U9w) a link to my spotify playlist I listened to while writing.
> 
> Don't believe this chapter needs any warnings. Enjoy! (In the last one, rest assured we Will Get Into It.)

The last time Kim was—the last time he engaged in—the last time he was involved with a man in a non-platonic regard was a while ago. A while before he became a deacon, even. Those two things being, as it so happens, connected. 

This leaves his current self in the unenviable position of having to figure out, for the first time, how to purport himself as some cornerstone of the community of faithful when less than a week ago he—God, really—made out with an engaged, or at least spoken for man.

In the staff parking lot.

At least Kim doesn't plan on repeating that particular bout of insanity, so this is a discomfort he'll only deal with once. Having to deal with it at all will be a very strong deterrent from any further incidents. There’s a sort of… itching sensation, the feeling of dirt clinging to him which persists despite showers and logical reasoning. He can’t shake the feeling that if anyone looks at him too closely they’ll know, that they'll be able to see it on him.

Common sense and past experience say otherwise, of course, and long minutes spent staring at himself in the mirror reveal nothing other than tiredness on a face that still doesn’t fully register as his.

It shouldn’t be as surprising as it is. This is, after all, what guilt does to you.

Du Bois doesn't attend mass. Of course not. Kim doesn't know what he would do if Du Bois was there, mostly because he can't wrap his head around the detective being stupid or thoughtless enough to show his face. It can't hurt to be careful, though. Harry has a tendency to surprise him.

Somehow Kim manages to keep his composure, despite the anxiety buzzing through him. Whatever Giroux says during the homily—something about the pale and the human soul—goes over his head entirely, but Kim keeps his expression neutral and no one gives him any odd looks when the staff discusses the yearly budget later that afternoon. So Kim considers his endeavor to hide his discomfort a success, for a given meaning of the word.

In all honesty, after it’s over he’s grateful, in a way. That excruciating experience is a reminder of why he chose to devote his life to the church, instead of languishing without commitment. The new year is an opportunity to reorient. To reaffirm his decision to follow this path.

If Du Bois knows what’s good for him, he’ll come to the same conclusion.

* * *

It takes Kim a week to settle into himself again, reacclimate to his own body. It takes another to succeed in scrubbing away imaginary filth from his skin. 

The third week he dreams of premature burials. The fourth week, he doesn't think about Du Bois at all. By the fifth, that's what disturbs him the most.

* * *

Kim sees Du Bois' car before he sees the detective again.

Not by much. Du Bois is the one driving it this time. Fortunately, Kim isn't the one Du Bois pokes out his head to talk to. That dubious honor goes to the actual owner of the place. Kim is under a different car, installing a new brake line, when Du Bois' voice cuts through the usual background noise of an auto repair shop and makes him freeze. From his mostly obscured position Kim can squint and make out the shape of a Coupris 40.

Seeing Du Bois again wasn't something he was looking forward to, but it's not exactly a surprise either. This was bound to happen. This is the closest shop to Du Bois' station. Kim's worked here since before he moved and, in that time, seen and fixed several cop cars. It's not even implausible that he’s seen Du Bois’ car, or the detective himself, back when he registered as a customer, not as a person. He can make the switch back.

Kim looks away from Du Bois—he had to crane his neck at an uncomfortable angle to try and get a glimpse, anyway. He refocuses on his work, and where his self-control leaves openings in his awareness he fills them with the meaningless chatter on the radio. Between the recent overplayed hits, an announcer discusses the weather with exaggerated enthusiasm ( _looking surprisingly warm for this early in the year_ ) and makes a crack about the most recent political scandal.

Du Bois is here for a tune up. He's told he should be good to go in somewhere around three hours, two if he's lucky. Within that timespan, it wouldn't be particularly worthwhile to take the bus to the station and back. Descriptors of public transportation in Revachol include 'existent' and exclude 'speedy.' 

Harry says something unnervingly similar, which is the moment Kim remembers that he's trying not to listen in. The unwelcome information filters through that the detective can wait, he brought some paperwork with him he needs to fill out so might as well—Kim furrows his brow and returns to the world of attaching fittings. 

( _You’ve probably heard this next one before, and if you haven’t, you won’t be able to get it out of your head. It shot up to the top of the charts…_ )

* * *

Du Bois has vanished when, quite a while later, Kim emerges from beneath the car to bleed the brakes. Which makes sense.

Once that's done, Kim takes a smoke break. With a Coupris 40 just visible out of the corner of his eye, it's not as grounding as usual.

As it turns out, Du Bois is lucky; the tune up's done in a little over two hours. He emerges from the waiting room in good cheer, papers sticking out from a folder tucked under his arm. Kim takes this as a sign that his break has ended. 

He puts out his cigarette and turns his face away quickly, but not quite fast enough. Du Bois sees him. Kim sees him seeing him, watches Du Bois' casual scan of his surroundings halt for a wide-eyed second. The expression on his face isn't what Kim expected. Kim doesn't know what he expected. Regret, maybe. Disgust, anger, pity would have been viable options as well. But Du Bois just looks thoughtful, taking everything in before he passes judgment.

And then he says thanks for getting the job done so fast, by the way do you mind if I take a quick smoke break here before I head back to the station. And then he starts walking in Kim's direction, unlit cigarette in hand.

Kim doesn't move. This isn't happening.

Showing complete disregard for the fact that this isn't happening, Harry stops a few feet away and says, "Hey, Kim."

After staring blankly for a few moments, Kim acknowledges him with a flat "Detective."

It's intentional. Du Bois' total lack of a reaction is also intentional. "How are you?" 

"Good." Kim suddenly remembers how to move and starts to walk away. "My break just ended. I should get back to work."

He hasn’t taken two steps before he hears, "Wait, Kim." Retracting Harry's first name privileges right now would be a very petty thing to do. The option is tempting. Kim waits. "Can we—talk?"

No one else is paying attention to Kim and Harry. The background noise is at its typical level of a small din, over which voices at a normal volume are hard to pick out. "I don't see what there is to talk about," Kim says to the ground.

Out of the corner of his eye, Kim sees Harry scratch his chin with the hand that isn't holding a (still unlit) cigarette. "Right. That's fair."

"I'm glad you agree."

"But," Du Bois continues, because he doesn't know when to leave well enough alone, "we're going to end up seeing each other every so often. Since I, uh, have a car, and you work here. So we should be able to talk to each other in a professional context without being weird."

Kim sighs and turns to face Du Bois directly. "I wasn't planning on 'being weird.' You're the one who decided to seek me out at my workplace."

Du Bois raises his hands in a gesture of peace. The unlit cigarette dangles from his fingertips like the flimsy excuse it is. "I came here for a tune up. That's it, I promise.” His expression is perfectly innocent. 

Then he pauses, winces, and lowers his hands back to his sides. “...But I also don't know where else to find you."

Other than church, Du Bois doesn’t say, which is a clear sign that there’s nowhere good for this conversation to go. "You don’t need to know where to find me, detective. If what you want is a functional business relationship, there's no need for us to discuss it.” No more space for Harry to flail around and push boundaries. Kim needs to state this simply. “The next time I work on your car, I’ll be professional. I expect the same from you."

A long ten seconds pass. Harry says, "Cool."

Another ten seconds go by. Harry's face goes from awkward, to hesitant, to nervous. Finally, he continues. "I think I owe you an apology, though."

"You don't,” Kim returns immediately. It’s too fast a response. 

Harry just levels a flat stare at him and keeps on going. "You, uh, were pretty gracious about it, all things considered. But the fact of the matter is even if I had been drunk, I went too far. I was in—a bad place, a bad state of mind, and I dragged you into it, and you didn't… you don't deserve that." 

His tone is sincere, his words carefully chosen. "I made you a part of my problems. And I’m sorry, for putting that on you, for pushing you, for… all of it." The conclusion, however, is lackluster, hampered by unwillingness—inability—to say the words _I’m sorry I told you you don’t have to be lonely and then kissed you when neither of those things can be true._

They’re in public. Of course Harry's not saying anything directly. And Kim doesn't want the facts stated here, in the daylight, where it'll be real. This in-between, though, is like static filling his skull, pressure building and threatening to explode. He misses not thinking about Harry. He misses when Du Bois was a harmless curiosity to think about.

He's not sure if Harry owes him an apology. Harry confided in him, Harry kissed him, but Kim did the same for the same reason. They're cowards, the both of them. 

Maybe Kim wants an apology anyway. Some meaningless words to round things out so this farce can come to an end.

"Whatever it is you want," Kim says at length, "I'm sure you don't need me to tell you it's a bad idea."

"I want to not have ruined everything because I was stupid. I want to have the chance to—to do better.” And Kim knows better than to think Harry just means him, but. “I _don't_ want to make you uncomfortable. I do like you, Kim. I like talking to you. I think you're a good person, and you deserve—"

Kim can't help himself. He barks out a laugh that startles the both of them, a loud, almost triumphant _"Ha!"_

Harry just looks at him after that, eyes wide with concern. "Tell me what you want," he urges. "If it's for me to just, walk away and never talk to you again—if that's what you really want—I'll do it."

The assurance is… pointed. Confident, in a way. Kim frowns. "You say that like you know what the answer is already."

"I have hopes."

Under his breath, Kim mutters, "God damn it." He wishes he could honestly tell Harry to fuck off. He wishes knowing someone knows him didn't make him feel raw, layers of skin peeled away to reveal what lies beneath.

"I want to never talk about _this_ again,” Kim says. “It was—it wasn't just you. We both made bad decisions and we should move on and forget about it, for both of our sakes.”

“Sure. Already done.”

Kim doubts that, heavily, but— “And I want you to be honest with me, Harry. This isn't about a business relationship."

At least Harry looks a little ashamed of himself, being called out on his weak pretense. But it doesn’t stop him from asking, earnestly, “Can’t we be friends?”

Kim knows he should say no. No, because I don’t want or need a friend, and I'm sure that's not what you want or need from me either. No, because you cheated on your fiancée with me and I’m not a gambling man, but I’m willing to bet you haven’t ended things with her. No, because it will ruin both of our lives.

No, because I’m better than this. I’m supposed to be better than this.

"I think we could both use one," Harry is saying. "A chance to start over. A clean slate, something normal. Hey Kim, I'm Harry. Let's… get lunch together some time."

The thing is that it’s hard for Kim to convince himself that’s true when Harry knows it isn’t, and Kim's the one who told him so. 

It was a mistake. It was an unfortunate collision of their respective problems under exceptional circumstances, the Dolorian concept of inevitability that robs free will from humanity and saves them from guilt. (Forgiveness is a double-edged sword.) They both want to move on, of course they do, there’s no other option, but does that mean—If Kim lets himself forget about New Year’s Eve, like he wants to, like he says he will, then his answer is—

“Alright,” he says, less begrudging than he'd like to sound, “friends,” and holds his breath when Harry smiles.

* * *

Harry scrawls Kim's number on the corner of a piece of paperwork he deems 'non-essential.' He promises to call. He leaves. The rest of Kim's day proceeds as normal; he might have dreamed up the whole encounter.

Kim's fine with that. At least, he is until he gets home to his empty apartment and realizes that means Harry has the initiative. It's up to Du Bois when they talk next. Well, isn't that how it's always been? Kim's never sought him out. Harry happens to him. If Harry had given Kim his number, Kim would never be able to talk himself into calling it. If Harry calls Kim, Kim's going to pick up, despite his better judgment.

If Harry gave Kim his number and Kim called, Harry might not be the one who picked up.

(Hello, I’m a friend of Harry’s. I met him at church. Is he there? You must be his...)

Harry doesn't call that day. Or the next.

Kim resolves not to overthink it. If Du Bois never calls him in the end, that makes no difference.

* * *

The majority of Kim’s dreams aren’t about being buried alive. Those are just the most upsetting to wake up from, the ones that don’t fade as soon as he opens his eyes.

Three days after seeing Du Bois again, Kim dreams about driving.

He's not sure where he's going other than 'forward.' The road isn't one he thinks exists, but there's a sense of generic familiarity to it. A kind of every-road, a ribbon of black stretching straight out to the horizon, bordered by idyllic golden flatlands Kim's never actually seen before in his life.

He fusses with the radio for a few minutes, just for something to do, but none of the music is fitting and the sound of someone else's voice is too intrusive. So Kim drives in silence. 

And solitude, for the most part. Time is slippery in a dream, but regardless of measurements, it's a while before Kim sees a colored speck on the horizon. The car approaches quickly. Kim can just make out someone's silhouette through the window, catch a fragment of a muffled chorus, before they pass and disappear behind him, leaving no sign they were ever there.

Drivers going the opposite direction appear just often enough to break up the monotony. No one else seems to be going the same way as Kim. He doesn't mind.

There are signs, of course, which blur in Kim's peripheral vision at regular intervals. None of them really register. Though not consciously, Kim knows where he's going.

Eventually he pulls into a rest stop. The air is crisp and clean, and it's a relief to get out and stretch his legs. A small group of artfully disheveled young people laugh amongst themselves by the side of a beaten up old car, oblivious to the world around them. Kim watches them for a short while before he continues on his way.

It's one of the nicest dreams Kim remembers having.

* * *

Harry calls. Kim has never felt more profoundly the absence of body language. 

He doesn't ask after an explanation for the really rather insignificant delay, or if Harry's alone in the room. It’s surprisingly easy to slip into normality, faced with Harry’s cheerful tone of voice stripped of physicality. It’s hard to want to feel bad about it.

After an unnecessary amount of schedule wrangling, a time, date, and location are chosen. The prospect of lunch seems almost ridiculously mundane, and when the call ends Kim finds himself standing by the phone trying to process what's going on. His fingers twitch with something held back.

He’s friends with Harry Du Bois. Trying to be, anyway.

There are, he’s sure, worse decisions he could make.

* * *

It’s Saturday afternoon, and Kim finds himself in a small corner café that Harry picked out. Not the kind of place that Kim would think of, but not a place he dislikes. Homey, he thinks. Warm. There's more empty seats than Kim would expect, but they planned to meet somewhat late specifically to avoid a crowd. 

Kim gets there five minutes early. He takes in his surroundings, acquires a cup of coffee, and slides into a chair by the window. While he waits, he squints at the menu above the counter (it's one of those places with clever names for their items that sound ridiculous out loud) and tries to find the most comfortable position on the uncushioned chair.

Harry arrives five minutes late and clearly aware of it. The door shuts behind him with an agitated jingle. He frowns, jitters his leg as he scans the room.

Kim waves a hand to get his attention. Harry grins, anxious energy dissipating, and points finger guns at him before strolling up to the counter with the confidence of a regular. Kim cannot remember the last time he saw genuine finger guns.

When Harry comes back to seat himself across from Kim, the grin has diminished to a somewhat nervous smile. “Hey, Kim, sorry I’m late. Were you waiting long?”

“Not at all, don’t worry about it.” The response comes smoothly, without conscious thought. He blinks and tries not to show how blindsided that makes him feel; that’s the point of this whole exercise, after all. “I assume you’re a regular—what's good here?”

This, of course, somehow spirals into Harry giving a surprisingly in-depth rundown of the necessary qualities for a good croissant. (Conclusion: the pastries here aren’t bad, but they could be better). Kim smiles into his coffee when he can't stop the corners of his lips from twitching upwards, then gets up to order a sandwich.

Conversation comes easy—or at least fast—though maybe not smooth. Harry is something of a nervous talker, acting quickly to fill silence, but there's a focused edge to his questions that make them feel more like a casual interrogation. The white rectangles on his shoulders that mark him as an officer of the RCM stand out in stark contrast to the dark fabric that surrounds them.

He's exhausted Kim's half-formed opinions on various baked goods, and expounded on his own, in the span of thirteen minutes, a time that would've been shorter sans the need to pause and eat the lunch they're here for. Between the two of them, Harry has the sweet tooth. Before he can go off on another tangent, Kim interjects. 

"I was curious—how long have you been an officer?"

"Oh, man." That seems to catch Harry off guard. He furrows his brow, does some mental math. "Little over a decade by now, I think. Doesn't feel like it."

Kim makes an interested noise. Harry looks to be around his age, so that would make him in his 20s when he joined. "Why'd you choose to join the RCM? It's a thankless job, by all accounts."

"Being a deacon strikes me as pretty thankless too," Harry says cheerfully. "Actually, I used to be a gym teacher, so it was kind of a lateral move. People I was working with got older, but not much smarter."

Kim huffs out a laugh, and Harry grins, lopsided, before his voice takes a turn for the serious. "But, uh, I felt like… felt like I should be doing something more, I guess. Trying to better society. Feels so long ago, I haven't thought about it in a while."

"That's an admirable motive."

"Yeah, well." In the face of an actual compliment, Harry's expression closes off. He taps his fingers against the table, crumples a napkin in his hand. "I'll throw it back to you—you've been a deacon for two, three years now? What got you into that?"

How does—right, Kim mentioned that the first time they met. When Harry questioned him. "I'm surprised you remembered that. It'll be three years in a few months." Though his tenure hasn't been nearly as long as Harry's, the time before his ordination feels strangely distant, his past self's motives inscrutable. Recall takes a moment. "I started out in youth outreach, actually. No intentions of joining the clergy."

"Youth outreach? That's a thing?"

"This is why we need youth outreach," Kim deadpans. "Yes, it's a thing. Neglected by many churches in Jamrock, but a thing. Most can't afford to pay someone to do it, and not a lot of people are willing to volunteer their weekend in order to convince teenagers to go to church."

"You were, though."

"Someone had to. It was," Kim concedes, "pretty thankless."

Harry chuckles knowingly. "At least I got paid to wrangle teenagers."

It's an attempt to commiserate, so Kim accepts it even if he's not sure he agrees."For five days a week. I only had to deal with them for one."

His Sunday mornings were set aside for mass, his Friday nights were set aside to wrangle teenagers. The schedule presented a strange symmetry. Even though he was unpaid, Kim's sure Harry had it worse. The subset of teens who attend youth group to appease their parents are, at least superficially, better-behaved than high schoolers in general. 

"So," Harry says, in the casually obtrusive manner of a listener left waiting too long for the next part of the story, "how'd that turn into deaconhood?"

"The priest at my old church suggested it to me after a while. I think he felt guilty about how much unpaid administrative work I ended up doing. I hadn't really considered it before, but the idea appealed to me." Involvement in the clergy, but not as highly visible or committed, not as esteemed as a priest.

"Deaconhood comes after sainthood." Harry nods to himself, face completely serious. "Got it." 

"I'm not sure your standards for sainthood comply with the church. Part of the appeal of becoming a deacon was actually getting paid, you know."

"In my opinion, getting teens to listen to you should qualify as a miracle. How'd you pull it off?"

"By being younger than their parents, mostly. I guess I was a little more relatable. Approachable." He's not telling Harry he bonded with teens over certain genres of music and being a gearhead. "I tried to be patient, and listen to them. That goes a long way."

There's a long moment where Harry just looks at him, observing. This piece of information will be filed away like all the others, adding to his mental portrait of Kim Kitsuragi. "You liked working with them."

Calling the job its own reward would be exaggerated—it was always, always nerve-wracking—but the idea of being a positive influence on the next generation was appealing. For a time, it was even comforting.

"Yes, I did." Kim doesn't have to confirm it—Harry sounds pretty certain all by himself—but he's strangely (morbidly) curious, now, what conclusions Harry will draw from this. "I think that helped, that they knew I was there by choice."

Harry nods, a half-unconscious action as he mulls that over. "...But you're not in youth outreach anymore."

"Eventually they found a better person for the job, and by that point I didn't have the space to juggle youth work with my day job and my candidacy." Kim sips the cooling remnants of his coffee, squints at Harry over the rim of his cup. "You're going to ask why I don't go back to it now."

Harry's expression is saying 'you got me' clear as day. He shrugs. "If you liked it, I mean…"

"Did you like being a teacher?"

"Sure, it was fun." Seeming to sense where Kim's going with this, Harry adds, "But it wasn't, uh, fulfilling, you know? So I'm not interested in going back."

"I guess I had the opposite experience. Youth work was fulfilling, not necessarily fun. And I was, and still am, unqualified. There are better people for the job."

"Better people who actually like the kids they're working with?"

"Better people who can actually answer tough theological questions. Teens have a lot of them." And even if he's taken courses and preached homilies, Kim still can't face that direct level of scrutiny without feeling inadequate. 

It's not that he doubts, exactly. In the end he does believe in a greater power and an order to the world. His personal approach to faith, though, the way he's reconciled his own issues, isn't something he can advocate to someone else. Certainly not kids with fears that are far too familiar.

Maybe Harry did have it better. Being a gym teacher can't be anywhere near as emotionally fraught.

"I bet they do." But Harry doesn't ask for an example. Instead, he swipes his fingers across his plate to pick up crumbs of sugar-coated pastry and absentmindedly licks them clean. 

Kim does not stare. ...Still, come on, who does that?

Completely unconcerned, Harry wipes his hands on his pants and refocuses on Kim. "And then you transferred to your current church, what, half a year ago? To help out old Reverend Giroux."

Kim stares. "You really remember all that?"

Harry taps his forehead with a finger, smirking. "Sure. Mind like a steel trap."

"Huh." Honestly, Kim's impressed, and then a moment later disconcerted by the implications in equal measure. "I thought it was strange you don't carry a notebook, but you must not need one if you can remember that clearly."

"Yeah, Jean used to get on my case about that when we started working together. He thought, well—" Harry frowns, corrects himself. "He still thinks it's unprofessional. I don't want to be staring at a piece of paper when I'm talking to someone, though."

He says this easily, as if Kim's just as familiar with Sergeant Vicquemare as he is. Having met him twice, Kim can't say he left anywhere near as strong of an impression as Harry did. Being partners, though, Harry and Jean must be close. "He has a point. It makes you seem... unreliable, if you don't write anything down."

Harry scoffs. "Unreliable," he repeats, making it sound like the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard. He clasps his hands together and leans forward over the table. "Do you think I'm unreliable?"

Before Kim can formulate an answer, Harry furrows his brow. In his absentminded scan of his surroundings, it seems his gaze has landed on his watch—and it’s later than Kim thought it was. Later than either of them thought it was, judging by Harry’s expression.

Kim starts to ask, “Do you need to—” at the same time as Harry curses under his breath and says, “Speaking of, Jean's gonna kill me—"

He chuckles weakly. Kim shuts his mouth. "I gotta head back to the station. Time flies, huh?”

“You work weekends?”

“More often than not,” Harry responds, with a grimace trying very hard to be a smile. He stands, his movements ungainly, like he hasn't fully convinced himself it's time to leave yet. In a compulsive motion, he checks his watch again. The minute hand stays stubbornly in place.

Kim is standing too before he's fully aware of it. "I should probably be going too."

"Yeah, lost track of the time. But this was—nice? I liked getting to know you better." Harry makes a strange expression once the words are out of his mouth, but doesn't take them back.

Despite himself, Kim smiles. "It was."

Harry is visibly relieved. "Cool." He takes a step towards the door. "Does this time in—two weeks work for you?"

The question takes a moment to process. Kim knows he's going to say "Yes" before he does, a knee-jerk honest answer to an honest question, and doesn't stop himself.

"Cool," Harry says again, and it's strange that his nervousness has waited until now to kick in. His leg jitters. "I'll see you, then."

And he's out the door with no opportunity to answer, leaving Kim standing by himself, equal parts vaguely bemused and disconcertingly pleased.

He busses their table, because he's not a monster, and as the door swings shut behind him decides to settle on feeling happy. Proof of concept—this has worked out fine.

* * *

After two days, in a fit of… something, Kim calls Harry's number. To prove to himself he can. To prove to himself it's fine. He's not sure if it's to confirm or to cancel. When Harry—or when someone who's not Harry—picks up, he'll decide.

The phone rings. Kim waits. 

No one picks up.

He squints at the paper he scrawled Harry's number on—one misheard iteration is scratched out in the corner, Harry'd been insistent Kim get it right—and suddenly isn't sure he dialed the correct one after all.

Not doubtful enough to redial. No reason to cancel. His Saturday afternoons will be free for the foreseeable future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on tumblr [@transgayming](https://transgayming.tumblr.com) or on twitter [@eastgaysian](https://twitter.com/eastgaysian). 
> 
> As a reassuring measure (?) I've actually had the ending to this fic + the skeleton of the last chapter planned for ages; it's the getting there that's been the hard part. And I can promise you some art for the last chapter as well! (You can find some art I did for the first chapter over [here](https://transgayming.tumblr.com/post/622383948385943552)!)


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